


10x6 Missing Scene

by J_Q



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Season 10 episode 6 filler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21857374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: Well, two minutes after I wrote what I hoped could be the missing scene from Episode 6, four pictures were released of what likely was supposed to be the scene. Part of me wants to throw the fic in the trash along with all my hopes. But we've come this far...what the hell. Here's a fic that will not ever be able to satisfy that hole left by this missing scene. Time for a group hug!
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 76
Kudos: 218





	10x6 Missing Scene

Mickey paced a new pattern in the Gallagher’s shitty living room carpet, while waiting for Ian to get back from the fucking ride he’d gone on with that bitch, Paula. It had been nearly three hours since he walked out the door, and Mickey had no way to communicate with him, since his phone was useless after a year of sitting in a fucking property bag.

The first hour wasn’t too bad. He’d given each Mexican a Milkovich style stare down and eaten half a dozen tamales that brought back way too many memories; he’d alternated between asking Lip if he’d heard from Ian and watching him try to soothe the kid when it kept squawking; he’d smoked half a pack of cheap Mexican tobacco with his new pal Jorge once they discovered a shared interest in the card game La Viuda.

Not knowing exactly how serious this shit was with the parole officer had Mickey on edge. He hadn’t had much time to catch up with Ian after he’d crawled through his bedroom window. It had been way too many years since they’d been able to bang in a bed with some fucking privacy, and the moment their lips met, he’d tugged at Ian’s belt, using it to guide his redhead to the single bed. After the third interruption though, they’d settled on hand jobs and light conversation. 

While Ian insisted on dabbing his goddamn forehead with antiseptic to avoid possible flesh eating disease or some shit, he’d filled Ian in on his parole then Ian had told Mickey about the insurance scam he was being roped into and how he was waiting for the fallout from his earlier decision to help the pregnant lady. He’d sat on the lid of the toilet listening patiently to Ian’s story and not losing his shit.

Before they could figure out how to deal with the problem, the bitch herself had shown up waving a goddamn Glock in their faces and demanding Ian go with her. At fucking 10:00 at night. No good was gonna come of that shit.

But Gallagher had given him the “I can handle this, Mick” look and Mickey had let him leave. Now it was past midnight, and no way was he letting Ian handle this alone. That’s not how shit worked between them anymore. He was gonna make damn sure Ian knew that too. If he ever got his ass home, that is.

Tossing the remainder of his tamale on the plate, he pulled open the back door to have a smoke and found Ian standing there, eyes a little wild, sweat stains on his black t-shirt.

“The fuck, Ian?”

They stared at each other for a moment, the kitchen light casting shadows over Ian’s pale face. For a moment, Mickey was petrified that Ian was going to actually answer the question. Whatever had happened was going to fuck shit up for them, he fucking knew it. Like an omen or some shit that was foreshadowing yet another obstacle in their life together. The thought tried to defeat Mickey, but he shook it off.

“Get the fuck inside, man.” He wrapped a hand around Ian’s wrist, pulling him into the kitchen and slamming the door, then flicking the lock as a safety measure. “What did that bitch do? I’m gonna kill her.”

“NO!”

Mickey flinched at the sound, stepping back in surprise. “Not literally, for fuck sake.”

“Just no, Mick, fuck.” Ian pushed past him, stopping at the sink to run the cold water. He splashed some onto his face before cupping his hands to scoop some into his mouth. Frowning, Mickey grabbed a glass from the cupboard and gently pushed Ian out of the way, so he could fill the glass. Once the glass was in Ian’s hand, Mickey slid his body between Ian’s and the sink ledge.

“What the hell happened?”

“Mickey…” That was the voice of an Ian who was retreating from the conversation.

“Don’t fucking Mickey me, man.” No way was this conversation ending before he had got everything out of Ian, and he could tell Ian knew he wasn’t backing down on this.

“I’m…scared to…”

“Scared to what?” Mickey wound his hand in the front of Ian’s t-shirt, letting some of his frustration out on the soft material. “To tell me what went down tonight?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

He yanked a little on the t-shirt to bring Ian’s face closer to his. “Fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re gonna be pissed.”

“I’m already pissed, Ian.”

“More pissed,” Ian said sounding defeated, eyes all sad and shit. “Like fucking furious.”

“You better tell me what the fuck happened right fucking now, man.”

“See!” Ian yanked his shirt out of Mickey grip and stepped back. Mickey followed, giving up no ground.

“See what? You haven’t told me shit, Gallagher.”

“And you’re fucking mad already.”

“I’m mad because you aren’t telling me.”

“You were ready to kill Paula before I even told you what happened.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian.”

“Just, Mickey, please.”

They were both just this side of yelling at each other, and Mickey released a huff of air to calm himself down enough to smile slightly at Ian then slip a hand round the back of Ian’s neck, bringing their lips together briefly.

“Okay, okay.” He nodded in acknowledgement that his anger wasn’t helping the issue. “You worried I’m gonna end up back in the can for attempted murder?”

“Of course, I am.” Ian’s eyes widened in disbelief like the question was an insult or something.

“Fine, fuck,” he began, holding up his right hand. “I swear to you I will never lay a hand on the fucking cunt.”

“Jesus Mick,” Ian rolled his eyes. “Nor will you get someone else to lay a hand on her.”

Mickey pressed his lips together because no way was he agreeing to that bullshit statement.

“Then I’m not telling you.” Ian pressed his lips together as well.

“Fuck you.”

Ian stepped out of Mickey’s arms, moving toward the stairs wearily. Mickey felt like shit for pushing him on this, especially tonight. “I fucking promise, Ian.”

He didn’t turn to look at Mickey though. “I need a shower.”

“Not until you fucking spill it,” Mickey demanded, stepping in front of Ian. “Not being left in the dark while you clean your privates.”

Ian’s face tightened in response to that.

“The fuck, Ian! Did she touch your privates?” Mickey was going to fucking kill her. He could feel his lip curl back in rage and Ian’s shoulders sagged for the tenth time since he returned home. “Sorry, I promise not to strangle her with my bare hands and watch her die a slow painful—I promise, okay?”

“I need a fucking shower, Mickey!”

“Shit, okay, let’s get you upstairs,” Mickey said linking his fingers with Ian’s as they started up the stairs. “You can tell me while you clean up.”

Mickey was prepared to tear the bathroom door off its hinges if anyone was in it, but the door was partly ajar, the crappy overhead light turned off. That was mildly disappointing to Mickey as having someone to confront would be a welcome distraction from his murderous intentions.

While Ian pulled his shirt over his head, Mickey twisted the knobs adjusting the water. A wave of déjà vu hit him, or maybe just a simple memory of the many times he’d done this before, and the unfamiliar sensation of being home. Not his home exactly, but just the feeling of being home.

He glanced at Ian, thinking maybe he would share that thought with the guy and try to lighten the mood, but he was pushing his jeans down his long legs, and Mickey saw that he wasn’t wearing any underwear. His blood immediately began to boil as scenarios played out in his mind. How the fuck was he supposed to not kill Paula now?

The slight tremor in Ian’s hands stopped his thoughts. That’s how he was supposed to stop himself. For Ian. They didn’t need to go down that road again. The goal was to stay the fuck out of the joint for the rest of their damn lives.

“Come here,” he whispered, waving Ian toward the shower. As he stepped under the spray, Mickey closed the shower curtain part way, leaning his shoulder against the tiled wall near the sink and watched Ian for a moment. He just stood under the water, letting the weak pressure hit his scalp then shoulders.

When he finally opened his eyes, he explained. “She tied me to a chair and put some fucking raw meat on my dick then threatened to let her rabid fucking German Shepherd eat it if I ever pulled my Mother Teresa shit again.”

Mickey pushed away from the wall as another wave of adrenaline hit his system. He paced once to the toilet, kicking the porcelain hard enough to make him cringe before returning to Ian, who was turning off the water. His back was bent, the skin littered with goosebumps. Mickey returned to the toilet where a towel hung. He sniffed it and decided it would have to do.

Ian stood in the middle of the tub, shivering slightly and waiting for Mickey’s response. Passing him the towel, Mickey organized his thoughts rather than spew the venom building in his chest. “No more Mother Teresa, right?”

Ian’s hands stopped drying his body. “What? You think I’m gonna let someone die on the fucking street to save my balls?”

“No,” Mickey said calmly while silently thinking _yes_. “You’re gonna call 911 like a good citizen.”

The towel resumed its attempt to rub the skin off Ian’s body as Ian actively ignored Mickey.

“Ian. Don’t fucking ignore me.”

The towel hit Mickey square in the chest and he shook his head in frustration. “911,” he repeated firmly then tossed the towel back at Ian. “Dry your hair while I grab you some sweats.”

He took those moments of pawing through Ian’s drawer to temper his anger, to stop the unreasonable need for retaliation, remembering telling Ian that you get better results by being smart not by being a fucking hothead. Time to take his own fucking advice for a change. He wasn’t going to let his irrational feelings for Ian cloud his judgment. Again.

By the time he returned to the bathroom, Ian was dry, his hair sticking out in odd angles from the quick towel drying. Mickey pressed the worn sweat pants into Ian’s hands then ran his fingers through the red hair, patting it into place.

“There,” he murmured.

A little life returned to Ian’s face. “I’m not a baby,” he teased.

“No, you’re a big boy,” Mickey teased back. “Get your ass dressed. I’ll grab you a tamale and meet you in bed.”

The house was weirdly quiet as Mickey watched the timer on the microwave count down. Fucked for life. He wasn’t even home for a day and already shit was starting up. As if the cartel bullshit wasn’t enough of a headache, now they had to deal with Ian’s conscience, which was a recipe for fucking disaster as far the bipolar was concerned.

How long until they hit a snag that tore them apart? He tried to ignore that question, but it was as engraved on his body as deeply as each one of his physical scars. It was inevitable, but not today. They got one day, goddamn it.

When he entered the boys’ bedroom with the steaming Mexican wrap, Ian was sitting on the bed, bare back pressed to the wall, reminding Mickey of their endless rounds of bickering in jail and how Ian always ended up in this position. Knees pulled close to his chest, arms wrapped around them, face stony.

It had the effect in jail of pissing Mickey off further because he always assumed Ian was pouting. Now Mickey realized he was protecting himself in the only way he could, by retreating into himself. It made Mickey sad because Ian had retreated from him too many times, and he wasn’t letting that shit happen again.

Setting the plate on the dresser, he shoved at Ian’s knees until they were straight, then he knelt on the bed, straddling his hips and resting his jean clad ass against Ian’s thighs.

“Stay here with me, okay?” he asked quietly as Ian’s hands rested on Mickey’s hips.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Ian shook his head quickly, eyes wide.

“I mean don’t go into your head.”

Ian smiled at him and Mickey felt himself relax. “I’m sorry.”

The hands on his hips moved under the back of his black tank top, massaging his back lightly. Ian pushed away from the wall so his cheek could rest on Mickey’s chest, and Mickey reached a hand behind his head to pull his shirt off, letting it fall on the floor beside the bed.

Ian really sighed when his lips met the skin of Mickey’s chest. “I’m okay now,” he said between kisses.

“Sure, we got this covered,” Mickey agreed, wrapping his arms around Ian’s shoulders and pulling him close enough that he could rub his own cheek against the still damp red hair. “Just need a plan to take her down, is all.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, nose pressed to Mickey’s beating heart.

“Hey,” he pulled back until Ian looked up at him. “Promise me you won’t risk it. That you’ll call 911.”

His right arm tightened around Mickey’s waist at the same moment that he twisted onto his side. Mickey landed gently on the bed, head on the edge of the pillow, Ian hovering above him. Their legs interlocked, tightly wound together, and Mickey guided Ian’s lips to his.

Before they could touch, Mickey said quietly. “I promised not to lay a hand on her.” It was probably a low blow, but if it worked then Mickey wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.

Ian nodded. “Okay, I promise, but I don’t know how long I can do this Mickey.”

“That makes two of us.”

Their lips finally met, slowly this time. They were tired, worried and frustrated. But they were together. That’s all that really mattered ultimately.


End file.
